by Ellen Butler
Fat flakes of snow drifted down to land on my shoulders as I set off in a westerly direction. The Rhine was close—I swear I could smell the river waters from here—and I debated finding a place to hide until daybreak, but something drove me to get into France tonight. Being this close to the front lines meant that I’d have to be careful, not only of the Heer and SS but also the Volkssturm, civilians given the authority to act as Germany’s National Guard.
Five days ago, my intelligence led me to believe that the Allies would be pushing through the Maginot Line and across the Rhine within the week. I figured by now my friends would be just on the other side of the river.
Rounding the corner of a building, I ran into my first obstacle. We bounced off each other with an “oof.” I stumbled over the rubble and almost lost my footing.
The dark figure fell to the ground. “Halt. Wer geht da?” Who goes there?
I could have laughed at the clichéd question if the flashlight hadn’t suddenly blinded me. “Schalten Sie das Licht aus!” Turn out the light, I commanded. “Do you wish for the entire British Army to see us?”
The light flicked off and the teenage boy rose.
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I am Anna. Who are you?”
“Oskar.” He gripped my arm and pulled me through the open door of the dilapidated building.
I didn’t resist.
“It is my job to patrol this neighborhood district.” Once in the bowels of the building, he flicked on his flashlight again, raking me with it before pointing its beam at the floor. “I don’t recognize you.”
“I ... I don’t live here. I am on my way to France.” My mind worked furiously to concoct a plausible story. “M-my sister was working as a teacher ... in Alsace, and we haven’t heard from her in months. Mother begged me to find her and bring her home ... before the enemy captures her.” I said the last in a frightened whisper.
“Do you have travel papers?” He wore civilian street clothes instead of the brown Hitler-Jugend uniform I would have expected from someone so young. Was he Volkssturm or something worse, a Gestapo spy? Or simply a boy trying to keep his home from being invaded by the enemy?
I shook my head. “Nein, they burned in a bombing raid.”
“Where are you from?”
I froze. Not a single German town came to mind.
“I said, where are you from?” he demanded, waving his Luger at me.
“Freudenstadt.” The name blurted out of my mouth. “I have been on the road for many days.” The moment that name came out of my mouth, I instantly regretted it. I should have chosen someplace farther away from Oberndorf.
“You should return there. You are walking right into the frontline battle. It is lucky you have not been shot.”
You have no idea. “My mother is distraught and it is important that I find my sister. See, I have her picture here.” I pulled the photograph of O’Leary’s girlfriend out of my pocket. My other hand remained shoved deep inside its pocket, tightly gripping the pilot’s weapon, with my index finger wrapped around the trigger.
He looked at the photo, covering his flashlight so that the glow filtered through cracks he made with his fingers. “She is very pretty.”
“When I think of the horrible things that could happen to her...” I shuddered.
“You realize she is probably dead,” he said, not in a harsh way but rather a matter-of-fact tone.
“She is my sister ... I can’t give up. I have to take a chance.”
“How will you get past the Siegfriedstellung and cross the river?” He returned the photo.
“I ... I don’t know.” In my flight, I’d forgotten about the Siegfried Line, a wall that had been built during World War I and rebuilt before Hitler invaded France. It consisted of a combination of bunkers, water-filled trenches, and concrete triangles sticking up from the ground like teeth, built to be tank barriers. In the months since the Allies landed in Normandy, the wall had been reinforced as a last line of defense against the invading army. “I thought I could hire someone to take me. I ... I have some money.” I looked at him through my eyelashes, and even through the dirt and filth of the past few days, my feminine wiles must have been working because I distinctly saw his face flush in the low light.
“How much?”
I named a sum that was respectable but not outrageous.
He hesitated and seemed to be wavering between the call of the money and his job, which should be to turn me in to the local police. I prayed he would take the money. I had no interest in shooting an innocent boy, but if it came to it, I wouldn’t hesitate to use the weapon to save my own life.
“Follow me, and stay close. Don’t talk.”
He turned, but I caught his sleeve. “Where are we going?”
“To the river.” He shrugged off my hand.
We picked our way through debris-strewn streets of a residential part of town, some of the homes blackened and burnt to a skeleton of what they once were, others with shattered windows missing large chunks as if a giant had taken a bite out of them.
He came to an abrupt standstill, barring my way with his arm. “Wait here,” he said and disappeared around the end of the building.
I heard a quiet murmuring of voices and laid my head against the rough wooden siding, allowing my eyes to close for a moment. I wasn’t sure if Oskar was aiding me or taking me to the police station to turn me in, but I couldn’t pass up the possibility that he had been swayed by my sob story and took pity on my plight. Besides, I still had the .38 wrapped in my hand ready to pull it out at a moment’s notice.
“Come on. No time for sleep. You wish to see your sister?”
My eyes snapped open to find Oskar unexpectedly close.
We wound through dubious side streets until we reached a patch of trees, and then mounds of concrete were in front of us. Oskar must have known where the bunkers were, because he wove us in and out, ducking behind this one and that, through some barbed wire that had already been cut, and we tiptoed between flooded trenches. Clearly this path wasn’t a first for my new friend as he remained surefooted, moving us quickly without a backward glance. A hundred meters past the wall, the river opened up in front of me.
The frigid waters of the Rhine darkly snaked northward as it made its run downhill from the Alps through the valley of the Rhineland and would ultimately culminate at the mouth of the Nordsee. My guide paused, searching the darkness before starting down a set of steps onto the embankment. He motioned me to my knees, and we followed the bulkhead, crawling like babies until coming upon a short dock. The end of the dock revealed a dark shape that took the form of a low-slung wooden rowboat.
“You pay now.”
“Whose boat is this?”
“It was my uncle’s. He was killed in battle.”
Speaking of battle, shelling could be heard to our north, and in the distance rose the glow of angry fire.
I looked at the tiny boat, then back at Oskar. “I’ll pay you half now, half when we reach the other side.”
He shook his head. “You’ll take the boat yourself. Straight across is a beach. Pull the boat up to the trees and hide it. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“You will need to watch out. There are patrols and soldiers. It is very dangerous once you cross over.”
“What about the boat? Don’t you need it?”
“Hide it, and bring your sister back with you. At midnight, three days from now, I’ll signal with the flashlight if it is safe to cross. Three short flashes. You understand?”
“What if I haven’t found her by then?” As soon as the question popped out of my mouth, I realized how silly it was, but a master stroke to allay any fears Oskar might have had of my intentions.
He shrugged. “Three days. That is all I can promise. The radio transmissions say the enemy is moving forward every day. We are not sure if the military can hold this position.”
“Why are you helping me? You could get into big t
rouble for this ... if the Gestapo finds out...” I didn’t have to finish my sentence; we both knew what the Gestapo was capable of.
For a moment he didn’t answer. “I have a little sister. If she were in trouble ... I would do anything to save her.”
Guilt over dragging this innocent boy into my lies clawed at me. “If anyone asks, you don’t know what happened to the boat. Say it was stolen, and don’t come back. The signal is too dangerous. Stay away.”
I pressed the money into his hand.
“I will be here. Three days.” Then he helped me down to the rickety boat.
My feet landed in a puddle of water. “I think it’s leaking.”
“Row fast.”
I gazed up at the boy to find white teeth bright against the darkness.
“It’s not leaking. It’s a boat. There is going to be water.” He showed me how to lock the oars into place. “The current is strong. Row upstream to counteract it. You want to land straight across; it is the safest location. Do you see that bridge? Do not allow the boat to drift that far downstream. There are big lights and machine guns on that bridge and they will shoot you. Understand?”
I gulped and nodded.
“Viel Glück. Remember, beware of the current. Upstream.” He wished me luck, pointed with his finger, and gave a shove with his boot.
He wasn’t kidding. By the time I reached the far side of the river, my arms were limp as cooked spaghetti noodles and my hands like raw meat. Even with the mittens on, I could feel the burn of painful blisters rubbing against the rough material. I barely had the strength to navigate the last few meters, and the berthing was anything but quiet. One of the oars whacked against a jutting rock, jerking it out of my hand and slamming into my breast. I couldn’t hold back a yelp of pain as I clutched a hand against the injury. There was little time to process what happened. A moment later, the boat grated against the sandy bottom and came to a standstill. The other end still bobbed in the wake of the tide, and, fearful that I’d be pulled back out into the current, I clambered out the front and pulled with all my might on the bowline to tug the vessel out of the water far enough ashore. After it was almost completely out of the river, I collapsed onto the pebbly sand on my hands and knees.
My breaths came out in shallow pants between clenched teeth, and I fought against the misery. My body was so overwhelmed by pain and exhaustion. Feet wet and cold as ice cubes were in direct contrast to my hands hot with blisters, my arms and shoulders burning with fatigue. As I drew in each breath, my chest throbbed, and the ache in my head that started during the chaotic truck ride ratcheted up another notch. My gut twisted and I heaved. There was so little left in my stomach it was mostly bile. When the retching finished, I rested my head against the boat’s frame, stretched my feet out, and pulled off the mittens to blow gently across the blisters. That tiniest bit of pain relief calmed my nerves. In a few minutes, my muscles relaxed and my breathing leveled out. The dampness of sweat now cooled against my feverish skin.
Eventually, I dozed listening to the flow of water, the creak of another boat moored nearby, and the grate of my own vessel against the sandy shoreline. No explosions, gunshots, or mortar fire could be heard. For once the war was quiet, almost peaceful.
The initial comfort of cooling perspiration turned into chilly goose bumps, and a shiver ran through my body, bringing me fully awake. Sunrise couldn’t be far off, and I wanted to be farther inland, past the Maginot Line, when it did. Knowing I’d never return to it, like poor Oskar believed, I left the boat and crawled up the short beach once again into the relative comfort of the trees.
Except for the fact that I was in France, I had absolutely no idea where I was. The current had been much stronger than Oskar led me to believe, and I was a kilometer, or more, downriver from where I’d started. Either the machine gunners Oskar mentioned had been asleep or they simply weren’t expecting someone to cross from Germany into France. The enemy would be expected to come from the opposite direction. What fool would be heading into the fray?
I walked, or stumbled would be a better way to describe the next period of time. Too exhausted to try to find a footbridge, I’d gotten soaked up to my thighs walking through a canal that ran parallel to the Rhine. The freezing waters bit at my skin, and the fluffy, innocuous snow flurries that had drifted down from the skies through the night turned smaller and began falling at a steady rate. My body shook and shuddered and my teeth chattered uncontrollably. My mind began to drift in and out of reality as I dragged my frigid, shattered frame onward, finally collapsing in a doorway of some sort.
I heard an exclamation and responded in the same tongue. “Aide-moi!”
There was heated whispering, and then my arms were pulled above my head and my body dragged over the threshold before the door closed with a snap. The next bit was a blur, recalled only in snatches of memory. A stooped figure helped me down a flight of stairs into a windowless room lit by a small, glowing brazier. Callused, work-worn fingers grasped at my coat, and I was stripped of my wretched wet clothes. A scratchy warm blanket wrapped around my body and weak tea forced down my throat, much of it splashing on the blanket.
“Merci,” I remember mumbling right before the bliss of oblivion enveloped me.
Chapter Twelve
Cat and Mouse
I didn’t come out of sleep slowly by drifting into consciousness. I bolted straight up with a start and completely disoriented. A frisson of fear shot through my body as I searched for familiarity. Beneath me lay a pallet covered with muslin ticking. Rough bricks covered the floor, and a damp, earthy smell led me to believe I was below-ground in a cellar. Except for my necklace, I was naked beneath the blanket. A little coal stove gave off enough warmth to comfortably heat the chamber. Further investigation revealed my coat hanging on a nail above the heater and my other clothes scattered across a drying line strung the length of the narrow room. The coat was almost dry, only damp in a few places. My nylon underthings were dry to the touch, and I put them on. The dress dripped wetly on the bricks below, not just at the bottom but all over. I had a feeling my hosts had taken it upon themselves to clean the miserable thing.
I shook my hair. The braids had been released and it curled damply around my ears. Holding my hands in front of the brazier, I turned them back and forth, revealing pink skin, a little raw, but cleansed of the sand and grime. The angry blisters, still painful to the touch, glistened with some sort of greasy balm.
How long have I been here?
My question was soon answered as the door opened and footsteps clunked down the stairs. I scrambled to pull the blanket back around my shoulders.
The head remained bent, watching every step, holding the rickety handrail in one hand and an oil lantern in the other. It didn’t look up until reaching the bottom. When the stooped figure beheld me, it drew to a halt.
The word crone came to mind—hands gnarled and swollen with arthritis that came from age and hard work. The wrinkled face peering at me, protruding between hunched shoulders like a turtle out of its shell, decried her many years on this earth.
“You are awake,” she stated in a wheezy voice. Her French accent was of a country dialect and I had difficulty understanding it.
“Oui. Where am I?”
“Not far from Drusenheim. Who are you?”
“I am searching for my sister. She was a teacher in Alsace.” I pulled the blanket tighter to my shoulders.
Her sunken black eyes stared, giving little away. “Come, child, let us not mince words. You washed up on my doorstep soaking, exhausted, without papers, and carrying nothing except this gun in your coat pocket.” She held the weapon with two fingers, by the grip, upside down.
Nothing? My eyes searched the tiny room for the rucksack, my lifeline throughout this ordeal. It wasn’t to be found. Did she take it? Where did I see it last? I’d removed it to row that dreadful leaking boat across the river. But I slung it on my back when I set off into the woods. Didn’t I? DIDN’T I? I had no recol
lection of its weight pulling on my shoulders as I staggered through the night, and I could picture it sitting across from me on the short bench spanning the craft’s stern.
There were no identifying papers and the purse generic enough. The rucksack, a simple brown leather affair, its only identifying mark the initials H.H., held nothing that would tie me to it. Still, the boat was bound to be found, and leaving the materials behind was ill-done. I must have been out of my head last night to have allowed it to happen. Thank heavens the gun was in my pocket.
“This is not a German weapon. Who are you? A remnant from the Résistance? Perhaps a Jew? You needn’t be afraid. I am no friend of the Nazis.”
Still, I hesitated to come clean with this woman. She looked harmless enough, and my own experiences showed a majority of the French were anti-Nazi; however, there were some who’d accepted German occupation, even going so far as to turn on friends and neighbors to curry favor with the new regime and save their own skin, especially in this region. Hitler had annexed it first, conscripting Alsatian boys and men into the German army, and the Gestapo had tentacles everywhere.
“Are the Germans still here?”
“So far. The British and Americans have been moving from the north and west, French army from the south, but you are sitting in a pocket that the Germans have yet to surrender.”
I closed my eyes and clenched my teeth in frustration. If only I’d floated farther upriver, I might have landed in the arms of the American army. Or if I’d crossed farther south, I could be celebrating with the French, perhaps enjoying a bottle of wine with one of my Résistance pals. Instead, bad luck had me washing ashore right in the middle of what was left of German-occupied France.
“Where were you going? Perhaps I can help.”
“To find my sister.”
The wrinkled face wrinkled even more as she made a moue of distaste. “Get dressed.” She tossed the gun onto the sleeping pallet, then slowly retreated up the stairs. I waited until the door clicked shut, then made a beeline for the weapon. The chambers remained fully loaded.
